


Loaded God Complex

by learntododgetheknives



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Contract Killers, F/M, M/M, Mafia AU, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 15:02:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2816426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/learntododgetheknives/pseuds/learntododgetheknives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchesters are contract killers for an organized crime ring, referred to only as the Syndicate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vessel of Grace

Sam Winchester had never gotten used to the sound of the iron bars as they clanked shut. It still made him jump, even after years of practicing criminal defense law and visits to his clients numbering well into the hundreds.

He preferred the clients who were held in minimum security. Hell, even medium security; talking to them behind an endless glass partition where dozens of other inmates sat with their phones to their ears while mothers cried and brothers joked and babies reached their tiny hands toward the glass; heartbreaking, yes, but no clanking. Just a guard standing on either end of the rectangular room.

Sam was not happy about this visit for several reasons, and the inevitable sound was only one of them.

His palms were already damp as he signed his name in the visitor log. He sat in one of the hard plastic chairs, briefcase resting on his knees once it had passed inspection.

After 20 minutes and a completely numb ass that was almost uncomfortable enough to distract him from his nerves, a literal giant of a man came to escort him down the fluorescent-lit hallway to the first set of bars, beyond which was another set, and then finally the cell where his client waited for him.

 _Six sets of clanking,_ he sang in his head, avoiding eye contact with the huge security guard, who didn't seem to mind the silence.

 

 

If Castiel had a surname, no one knew what it was.

They called him "The Angel," honoring the grand mob tradition of bestowing nicknames that made sense, like calling a fat guy, "Big Tony," or a skinny guy, "Eddie Spaghetti," or a clumsy man, "Three-fingers Sal."

"The Angel" was the most vicious, terrifying member of the syndicate that the Winchester family had contracted with for decades. His kills were always clean, but never quick. He enjoyed the kill and considered the suffering a sacred, holy thing that gave meaning to his life. It was not foreplay. It was his goddamn _religion_.

He was also insanely beautiful. His height was the only thing average about him. His smile took over his countenance and was contagious, but not like a virus. It was akin to the way sun shines through a stained glass window; the rays filter individually upon each face that is near, and those faces reflect the light without being conscious of it. The blue of his eyes was a shade that hadn't existed on Earth before him. All who saw them sought refuge in them, as though one could find their resting place within the reflecting pools. He would allow this for his lovers. His victims, however: the last thing they ever saw this side of the line was calculated indifference coupled with complete reverence-Castiel was a monster in the vessel of Grace.

He was also way too smart to ever get caught, and that was what made Sam so uneasy. The fact that Castiel sat across from him, feet and hands bound with heavy chains, shackled to the floor; the Winchesters had known Castiel long enough to be certain that he would only be caught under two circumstances. Either he would allow himself to be caught, or he would refuse the kill. Both of these options meant something was absolutely wrong somewhere, within the syndicate or outside of it, and it would not bode well for those in bed with Crowley's band of criminals.

Sam was not afraid of anyone, not for himself, at least. But he worried for his family. He'd suffered enough loss for one lifetime, thank you very much.

The Angel spoke first. "I was told that you initially refused to defend me." The gravelly voice usually did not dovetail with the ageless face, but today, sporting 72 hours' worth of dark stubble, it belonged to him.

"Yes. That's true. But get this; I'm not allowed to refuse anything when it comes to you or your associates." Bitterness crept into Sam's voice.

"So why did you even attempt it in the first place?" Castiel cocked his head to the side; a curious Spaniel, complete with puppy eyes.

"For some semblance of free will, I suppose." Sam opened his briefcase and started leafing through the file. It was very thin; a testament to just how good the syndicate were. The only contents-initial police report, witness statement, mug shot-were placed on the table. "How did this happen, Cas?"

A tiny grin at the familiarity followed by a shrug. "I don't know. I guess I wasn't careful enough."

"Bullshit. You can't fool me. I've known you too long."

"You and your family are employees. You do not have carte blanche to understand everything, and you are treading dangerous waters to presume otherwise." The Angel shifted uncomfortably in his metal chair, eyes flashing.

Sam barked out a laugh. "You don't scare me, Cas. You don't do anything unless Crowley orders it."

"And you are sure he wouldn't order me to kill you?" Castiel's blatant attempt at intimidation meant he was nervous. Everyone knew that he believed intimidation to be beneath him. Sam was lucky; a calm Castiel would never cooperate.

"No. But right now, you're starring in an all-male version of Orange is the New Black and I'm the only attorney Crowley trusts to defend you. If _I_   were you, I'd be more worried about how angry Crowley is at this turn of events." The tiniest flinch; a microsecond of shadow across the perfect face, and Sam knew he had him. "Start by telling me who the target was."

"That's not necessary. You don't need the name, only the details surrounding the events." The Angel might be nervous, but he was also stubborn.

And he was right. Sam didn't need the name. He was simply curious. However, he reminded himself that too much disclosure between a mobster and his attorney rarely ended well for either party, and he nodded his agreement. "Start with the details, then." He had his yellow legal pad in front of him, and pulled his pen from his coat pocket. "But leave out the grisly ones, please."

The Angel's smile was all Cheshire Cat. "As you wish."

 

 


	2. Never Saw Him Do It To You

Sam had shed his suit jacket and tie the minute he left the prison. He was uncomfortably hot and undid the top two buttons of his shirt as he started the engine, rolling up his sleeves as he drove away from the hulking gray structure surrounded by barbed wire.

Castiel hadn't given him anything useful. Everything he'd told him could be read in the initial police report. How the hell was he supposed to defend the man?

Maybe he didn't want to be defended. Maybe he knew that if he divulged any details, it could be linked all the way back to Crowley. There were plenty of Crowley's underlings in charge at that prison, and everyone knew what would happen to someone who threatened to snitch.

Deep down, Sam knew that couldn't be it. Castiel was far too intelligent. He could divulge everything and still know when to hold his tongue in terms of his associates.

Sam shook his head. No more work today. He turned on the radio and lost himself in an NPR broadcast of This American Life.

 

.................................................

 

His big brother was sitting on the front porch of the huge, Victorian-style home when Sam pulled the shiny blue Mustang into the driveway. Dean didn't look up from cleaning his gun, something he did at least once a day for every gun he owned. Sam grabbed his tie, jacket, and briefcase as he slid out of the car. "Hey, dude, aren't you hot out here?" he called out to Dean as he shut the door. It was the middle of June, and the whole state of Illinois had felt like an oven for two weeks.

The only response was the click of the magazine into the handle of the Glock as Dean finished his routine. Sam shook his head, walking up the front steps and across the wooden porch. Dean was obviously in a mood.

"Is there beer?" Sam swung open the door and stepped inside, sighing as the cold air rushed toward him. "Thank God for air conditioning."

Dean followed him as he went first to his office, setting the briefcase on his desk, leaning against the door frame and studying him with bright green eyes and a dour expression. "Been to Pontiac?" he finally asked.

Sam shoved past his brother and headed for his bedroom. "We live in Pontiac," he snapped.

Dean followed him and sat on the edge of the bed. "No, technically we live in Rooks Creek." He watched his little brother hang his jacket and tie on a hanger, replacing it in the half of the closet reserved for his suits that needed to be dry cleaned. He was meticulously organized. He claimed it made things easier for Linda, their housekeeper. But it was just the way he operated in every aspect of his life. He grabbed a pair a khaki shorts from a drawer, clean boxers and a white t-shirt from another.

"Do you _mind_?" Sam asked Dean, gesturing toward the bathroom. "I'd like to take a shower."

"Thought you wanted a beer. Which, by the way, we have plenty of. But you didn't answer my question." Dean crossed his arms.

Sam threw his hands up. "Fine. Stay if you want. I'm getting in the shower." He stomped into the bathroom.

Dean waited until he heard the sound of the water running and the curtain opening and closing before he barged in.

"HEY!" Sam hollered. "Just because there's no lock doesn't mean I'm not entitled to privacy!"

"Relax, dude." Dean perched on the lid of the toilet. "I'll leave when you answer my question."

"You know damn well I was at Pontiac." Sam soaped up his hair.

"Way to stand your ground, there, Hoss." Dean shook his head and rolled his eyes. "You told Dad-"

" _I know what I fucking told Dad_!" Sam finally lost his temper. "Can we please discuss this after my shower?"

"Fine, fine." Dean stood to leave, thought briefly about flushing the toilet but decided against it. Next time, he thought. "I'll be in the den." He closed the door behind him.

Dean grabbed 2 beers from the fridge and one frosty mug from the freezer. He poured for Sam, grabbed a coaster and set them both on the end table next to Sam's favorite recliner, then sat on the couch and opened his own, letting his mind wander.

_Cold, hard blue eyes._

_The way the leather jacket squeaked as he rushed to get out of it._

_The smell of the cologne that had given away his presence in the darkness behind him._

_The feel of the silencer on the back of his head._

_Lips and teeth and tongue._

Sam interrupted the memory when he walked into the room, running his hand through his damp hair. He saw the beer next to the chair. "Hey, thanks, man," he said as he sat. "So, what do you want to know about Pontiac?"

"I want to know why you went, despite your protest with Dad."

"Well." Sam cleared his throat. "You know Dad's way of convincing people."

Dean shuddered slightly. "Yeah," he said softly. "Never saw him do it to you."

"Doesn't mean he never did."

They both took a long pull of their drinks. "Is that all?" Sam asked, after a stretch.

"Yeah. I guess." After a beat, "So, how's The Angel holding up in there?"

"Fine, I suppose. He's sort of nervous, but he damn sure ain't going to let anyone know it."

"Never thought I'd see the day." Dean brought the bottle to his lips.

"Me either, man. Castiel was the most terrifying bastard in the syndicate. I can't figure out what went wrong."

Dean cleared his throat. "Did he give you any details?"

Sam barked a laugh. "You know better than that. He didn't say shit. Just repeated what the report says."

"You think he's worried about Crowley getting hold of him in there?" There was anxiety in his voice, just a smidge of worry that no one would ever have noticed.

Except his little brother, whose curiosity peaked. Knowing, however, that some things shouldn't be mentioned, he filed it away for later exposition. "I don't know. I doubt it. I can't figure it out, though. He'll do life if I can't defend him, and it's almost like he wants it that way."

Dean stood and turned away from Sam, in pretense of going for another beer. But he closed his eyes sadly for a brief moment. "Well, you're a good lawyer. You'll figure something out. Want another beer?"

"I'll take a Scotch, thank you." The lilting British accent announced their boss' sudden presence in the room. He had a way of doing that, appearing from out of nowhere. Crowley knocked sometimes, when he was in a good mood. This was not one of those times.

Sam stood quickly. "Hey, uh, Crowley. Dad's not here, if you're looking for him-"

"Oh, sit, sit, my boy. Please." He turned to Dean. "No need to stand on ceremony, mates. Dean, fetch those drinks, will you? I need a moment or two alone with Moose, here, and then we'll all have a chat." He sat in the leather recliner across from Sam as Dean disappeared into the kitchen.

"Moose, huh? Haven't heard that term of endearment in awhile." Sam sat back, crossing his arms behind his head.

"Yes, well. You are my favorite lawyer. High time we had a meeting. Especially considering the circumstances."

"You know I can't divulge anything that Castiel says-"

"No no no, of course not." Crowley's voice was dripping honey. "I just want to make sure that you understand how important it is that he is released."

"I am going to request bail at the arraignment, but it's highly unlikely, given the fact that he was deemed dangerous enough to bypass the DOJ's county facility and go straight to Pontiac."

"Of course. Ah! Squirrel, thank you!" Dean had returned and handed Crowley his Scotch. "As I was saying, yes, I am aware of the unusual tactics being used by the authorities in regard to Castiel's incarceration. Perhaps you could use that as an argument for acquittal?"

Sam furrowed his brow. Crowley knew damn well that wouldn't work. "I don't think so, sir. There is precedent concerning unusually dangerous inmates-"

"And you are aware of the precedents when I become dangerous," he said coldly. He swallowed his drink quickly and stood. "He will be back within the folds of the syndicate the day after tomorrow."

"And if he's not?" Dean snapped. He had little patience for Crowley, now more than ever.

"He will be." Crowley never took his eyes from Sam. "I can't wait to welcome him back into my loving bosom." And then he was gone.

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered. "Sammy, you gotta do something."

Sammy understood clearly. And he was terrified.

 

 

 

 


End file.
